Battered, bested and beaten but maybe not quite broken
by sherlocks-skeletal-warlock
Summary: Prompt 55: Spirit. Arthur's spirit is broken, crushed... But really, is it? Or will someone help? USUK. Oneshot.


**A/N: Some angst USUK for y'all.**

**Dedicated to my darling girlfriend Danni**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing…**

Battered, bested, beaten but maybe not quite broken.

It's raining, as Arthur trudges back from the meeting. The ground is wet and it squelches beneath his boots with sucking sounds that make the Brit shudder in disgust. He's in a bad mood again. The personification of England is often in a bad mood, something that when asked why he will attribute to either, 'that bloody Yank!' or 'bloody Frogface!' dependent on who had been most annoying at the meeting. But beneath the layers of gruff anger and sharp sarcasm, Arthur is just lonely. He ponders this as he walks. Aren't they all? Sure, they hide it in different ways; Antonio with his obsessive and continued happiness; Francis with his flirting; Lovino with his foul mouth; Gilbert with his 'awesomeness'; Roderich with his superiority and Alfred with his damn heroism.

But in the end, truly, all nations are terribly, agonisingly, alone.

Unless, of course, they had each other. And Arthur knows some nations do, like Italy and Germany or Norway and Denmark, but not him. He has been isolated for so many years that he isn't sure he can reach out to anyone.

His spirit is broken, shattered, shredded- "Hey, Arthur!" The Englishman pauses as he hears a familiar voice behind him. He turns and sees Alfred hurrying after him, clinging to a large black umbrella.

"Aren't you soaked?" Arthur ponders on this. He is soaked, true, but he is not sure if Alfred asking him or telling him. "C'mon," finishes the American. "I'll walk you home." Arthur just nods. He's feeling lethargic, exhausted and weak. Alfred frowns at him.

"Hey, Artie, are you okay?"

"Y-Yeah... Yes! Yes, you bloody Yank, I'm fine!" The growl is out of his mouth before he thinks about it but Alfred just laughs. This is always how things go. The snapping, the growling, the quick responses. It tells Alfred that Arthur is okay.

But Arthur is not okay.

Arthur can't remember the last time he was okay.

But he can't tell Alfred that. Alfred, of all people, needs to believe that he is okay.

"Arthur? Art?"

"Don't call me that!" he snaps, slipping under the umbrella.

He can't remember why it's so important that Alfred believes he is okay. Maybe it's to do with their past and how he looked after the American when he was just a boy. Whatever it is, Arthur can't appear weak in front of Alfred.

They walk together quietly. Well, Arthur is quiet; Alfred babbles on about something completely unrelated to anything that Arthur cares about. As they reach the Brit's home, the Englishman has the sudden urge to invite the American in.

"H-hey, Alfred, um, come in out of the rain and have a cup of tea, yeah?" The American looks a little surprised by the offer but nods.

"Sure, Artie. But... Uh, I don't have to drink tea, do I?" Arthur rolls his eyes.

"No, you can drink coffee, you bloody Yank." The Brit opens the door and waves the American inside. Graciously, Alfred shakes his head, letting Arthur enter first. As soon as he gets inside, he shivers at the change in temperature.

"I'll just, um, go get changed, okay?" mumbles Arthur. Alfred nods and the Brit heads up the stairs. He changes out of his sopping suit and into a pair of joggers and a hoodie. Then, he slinks back downstairs where Alfred is making tea. Arthur curls up on his sofa. He has given up. He doesn't care if the personification of America sees him like this anymore. He just wants to cry. The reason for his tears are lost, disappeared inside his huge, long memory. The tears fall, hot, fast and thick and so much so that Arthur doesn't notice when Alfred comes in with the tea. But he does notice when an arm snakes around his hunched shoulders and he is drawn into Alfred's chest. The American doesn't say anything and just lets the Brit cry into his shirt. After a few moments of whimpered sobbing, Arthur stops weeping enough to lean back and look at Alfred.

"I'm sorry, I got your shirt wet..." he mumbles and Alfred just smiles.

"Don't apologise, dude. Feeling any better now?" Arthur nods but doesn't move away from him. He feels safe here, comforted by Alfred's warmth. Luckily, the American seems to understand this and just holds the Englishman close, toying with tufty blonde hair.

"Artie... Is there anything you want to talk about?" Arthur appreciates the fact that Alfred is trying to help but there is nothing to say, so he merely mumbles, "Just, just hold me."

And the American does until the Brit falls asleep.

Because after everything, the older nation's spirit is battered, bested and beaten but maybe, just maybe, it's not yet broken.


End file.
